Heat Wave
by IronAmerica
Summary: How do our favorite characters deal with the heat wave sweeping through Palm City, a week after the blizzard?  This story is based on the current misery being inflicted on the East Coast and Midwestern parts of the United States.
1. Vince and Orwell

Hey, look, it's another story in the THS canon! This time, it's a monster heatwave from hell!

Un-beta'ed, as always.

Chapter One: Vince and Orwell

- o – o -

Vince was pretty sure that he'd take the snow back any day. A week ago, there had been over five feet of snow burying Palm City. This week, it was a soul-crushing heat wave. He even took back his comment about wanting to move to Death Valley at this point. Temperatures had clocked in at 103 degrees by ten AM, and it didn't look like it was going to go down any time soon. The forecast wasn't looking so good for the next week either.

A quick look over at his partner, Orwell, told him that she was as miserable as he was—if not for the same reasons. Shortly after the temperatures had started rising, he'd unplugged all of her computers.

He'd explained—several times, in fact—that the computers were generating more heat than his coffeepot was. Orwell had sulked and proceeded to ignore him. She was mourning the loss of an internet, for the second time in as many weeks.

And somehow, Vince couldn't bring himself to care. With a groan, the vigilante pulled himself up and began fishing around for the remote to the air conditioner. He'd turned it down nearly ten times, and the lair was still stiflingly hot. One would think that, because his lair was underground (and still drying out from the snowmelt), it would be a lot cooler than it actually was.

"It's not going to help any," Orwell said, watching Vince fruitlessly punching the remote in an attempt to bring the temperature down again. She was wearing a bikini top and shorts, and she was still wilting in the heat.

"Whatever," Vince muttered sullenly, flopping back down on his bed. "How much would it cost to move to the Arctic Circle, do you think?" He heard Orwell snort, and decided to drop the issue. Right now, the Arctic Circle was looking better than Death Valley had during the freak blizzard.

He personally blamed ARK for the heat wave. Even if they weren't, he was still going to blame them because it made _him_ a little less miserable.

"Go back to sleep Vince," Orwell muttered, before taking another pull from her water bottle. If it weren't for the fact that Vince was supposed to be dead and she was in hiding, she would have dragged both of them down to the community pool just for some relief.

Vince raised an eyebrow, and threw the remote down to the blogger. "Keep the heat down, would you?" he asked closing his eyes.

Orwell waited until she was sure he'd dozed off before reaching for one of the power cords for her computer.

"Don't even think about it, Orwell," Vince said. Orwell sighed and slouched back to the cot underneath a fan. So much for that plan…

- o - o -

Author's Note: I realize that I should be working on Insecurity or Unexpected Consequences, or even my summer homework. But right now, I'm sitting in front of the AC trying not to wilt. Here's a story.


	2. The Carnival of Crime

Chapter two: the carnival is stuck under the heat wave now.

Un-beta'ed, as always. Special thanks go out to the first reviewer on the last chapter.

- o – o -

Chapter Two: The Carnival

Every member of the Carnival of Crime was, by now, sure of the sadistic influence of the weather gods over their lives. The week before, they'd suffered through a blizzard that had buried them under five feet of snow. This week seemed to be the thaw, followed by a heat wave with record-breaking temperatures. The heat was not helped by the humidity coming from the snow melt.

If they hadn't been religious before, the majority of the carnies were now quite sure that the end of the world was fast approaching.

Ruvi had been the one to bring back news of the heat wave. He'd gone out for his usual early-morning run and had come back three hours earlier than expected, bearing a newspaper and a back pack full of water bottles and ice.

The Romanian hypnotist had promptly collapsed after handing the paper to Max, drawing many concerned looks from his fellow carnies. Raia had once again taken the initiative—and again proving why she was the team mother—by dragging Ruvi into the side tent he used during shows.

Half an hour later, he was sufficiently cooled down to be able to make any sense.

"First a snow storm, now a heat wave," Ruvi grumbled under his breath as he massaged his temples. "What next? A famine?" He accepted a water bottle from Raia, noting that it was still partially frozen. At least it was cold…

"Don't tempt fate, bro," Rollo replied, grabbing another ice pack out of the cooler. Even with the industrial fans going full strength all over the big top, it was still almost as hot inside the tent as outside.

Ruvi smirked, sticking his tongue out at the dwarf. Raia, sensing that a fight was developing between the two men, walked over and smacked both of them on the back of the head. "Honestly," she grumbled, "I have no idea why you two act so immature. Grow up!"

With that, the animal trainer stalked away from the two stunned carnies and flopped down on the mat she'd put down in front of one of the fans.

Rollo looked over at Ruvi, who shrugged. The expression seemed to say "search me, man". Rollo had to agree with the hypnotist.

And they could only pray that the heat wave died down before Max got back from…whatever it was that Max was doing out of town.

Preferably _before_ Raia set the tiger on them.

- o - o -

Hey, look, the second chapter is finished before the end of the day. This is probably the fastest you'll ever see me update something.

In the mean time: what do you think? Like it? Love it? Hate it? Think it should be killed with fire? Drop a line and let me know!


	3. Peter Fleming

Chapter three is finally up, thanks to the muggy and miserable heat in Norfolk, Virginia.

Un-beta'ed, as always.

- o – o -

Chapter Three: Peter Fleming

_Peter, this is getting old rather fast. Turn the damn heat down._

Fleming smirked as the childish whining from his alter-ego began again. While he had to admit Chess had a point, it was still amusing. Who knew tormenting the maniac was so easy?

_I resent that remark._

"Or you resemble it," Fleming murmured, hiding the movement of his lips behind his water bottle. "And I could be drinking coffee, you know…"

There was no response from his sociopathic alter-ego, which Fleming counted as a victory. The heat wave that had descended on Palm City was the second in a long line of freak weather patterns (and the seventh in an even longer line of freak occurrences overall). Dear God, what was next—a monsoon?

During the blizzard a week ago, he'd brought in snow plows from another state. The press had lapped it up, resulting in some of the best publicity that ARK had ever gotten from near-genuine good will.

In the face of the unnatural heat wave, he'd organized water distribution and other ventures in an attempt to keep the heat stroke down. So far, he had yet to make a reasonable dent, but results took time. Snow was easy enough to remove; heat stroke was a little less tangible.

Besides that, what fun was there in running a city when no one was aware of his efforts?

_Turn the damn heat down, or _you_ won't be around to run the city_ Chess muttered sullenly in the back of Fleming's mind.

"Promises, promises," Fleming muttered. "You said the same thing _last_ week." Although he hated to admit it, though, Chess had a point. Not that he'd acknowledge that, of course. What was the point in giving up an advantage over the lunatic?

Fleming looked out one of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows that dominated his penthouse office. The city lay below, spread out like a shimmering sea with no end in sight. The billionaire studied it impassively for a few minutes before returning to his work. There were schedules to organize, deals to be made, and a city to run.

_I hope you get heat stroke._

Fleming grinned as Chess made his parting shot. And now he needed a pot of coffee…

- o - o -

So, chapter three is up. Like it, hate it? Think Chess should stop whining, or Peter should stop being a dick? Drop a line and let me know.

I swear, I'm working on UC. It's just taking some time, the muses are being uncooperative.


	4. Dana and Trip

Hey all! It's a new chapter of Heat Wave! It may have left my area, but it definitely hasn't left my kitchen!

Un-beta'ed as always.

- o - o -

Chapter four: Dana and Trip

Trip slouched into the kitchen shortly after ten AM, dressed in shorts and a ratty tank top that Dana was pretty sure had been Vince's at one point. She smiled as she got the cereal down from the top cupboard and set the box in front of her nearly-catatonic son.

"Morning sleepy," Dana said, sitting down at the kitchen table. Her son mumbled something that might have been a reply, or a snore. If he spent too many more hours up on the roof looking for the Cape, she was going to bolt his window shut and forbid him from going back up there. This was getting ridiculous!

"Can I turn the AC on?" Trip asked after a few minutes. He had been stirring his cereal around the bowl with his spoon, as though contemplating eating it but not making any actual effort to do so.

"It's already on," Dana muttered, standing up. She walked into the living room where the air conditioner was mounted in one window, and scowled at the machine. She'd turned it on the second she got up that morning, and it hadn't cooled down any in the last two hours.

The heat was absolutely miserable, and according to the broadcast, it wasn't going to get any better. People were being advised to stay indoors with the air-conditioning on. If they had to venture outside, carrying water bottles was advised.

"This day already sucks," Trip mumbled when his mother came back into the room. Dana scowled at him, and he ducked his head. A mumbled apology, and everything was back to normal. Except for the heat.

"If the heat gets much worse," Dana said, "would you like to go get ice cream later? Or go to the pool?" Ever since they'd moved into the apartment, Trip had been moving further away from her. After hearing the news about his new friend "the Cape", she'd made significant strides in trying to be there as much as possible for her son. She didn't want to lose him too…

"No thanks," Trip mumbled, pushing his cereal bowl away. "I'm gonna go watch cartoons or something."

Dana watched him go, sighing. No matter what she did, she always felt like the enemy after talking with Trip. Was she just not trying hard enough? Or maybe she was trying too hard; it was something to think about during this miserable heat wave.

The public defender began washing the dishes from breakfast, feeling almost mechanical in her movements. Eight months since Vince had died. Eight long months, in which her son had slowly been slipping away from her; if he weren't already talking to the psychiatrist at school, she would have taken him to another.

Imagining a superhero—even if the superhero was his friend, and told him good stories about his dad—wasn't healthy.

She checked the temperature and sighed. 109 degrees, and it wasn't showing any signs of going down. Dana sighed again, hanging her head. It was going to be a _long_ week…

"Trip!" she yelled, "get some shoes on. We're going for ice cream!"

And that was that. She wasn't going to let her kid mope around, especially not during a heat wave. If he was hallucinating, she was going to do everything she could to keep him grounded in reality.

And ice cream seemed to be the way to go. She smiled as she locked the apartment door behind them, listening to Trip babble on about what flavor of ice cream he was going to have.

- o - o -

So, what do you think? Like it, hate it? Think it should be killed with extreme prejudice? Drop a line and let me know!

Side note for everyone who's been reading Unexpected Consequences-I haven't abandoned it, it's just taking some time. Soon as Dana stops trying to kill Fleming, I'll post a new chapter.


	5. Scales

All hail the Great God of Yard Work, for He is merciful and inspired the muse!

Un-beta'ed, as always.

Chapter Five: Scales

- 0 -

When Kazzie, Mikey, Trevor and Noodle (still the baby of the bunch, despite his recent birthday) arrived at the warehouse that morning, they brought news of the heat wave and bottled water. They'd expected to see their boss dressed as casually as everyone else—wearing a t-shirt and shorts to stave off the heat.

Dominic Raoul—Scales, to the world at large—had a well-deserved reputation for insanity, though. As soon as the four saw that their boss was dressed in his usual heavy suit, they began taking bets on how long it would take for the smuggler to have a break down. That, or how long it would be until they had to dump him in the ice tubs outside the warehouse entrance.

The big man was more sensitive to changes in the weather than most people, so it was a reasonable assumption.

Even with his reputation, what they found was beyond unusual even for Scales.

The smuggler was seated at the head of the table near his office, a pot of coffee (fresh, judging by the steam), and a large set of blueprints by the other. He was also wearing a three-piece suit and didn't appear to have realized that the temperature outside was well over 107 degrees.

"Mornin' gents," Scales said, not looking up from the blueprints.

The four muttered their own greetings, sharing odd looks. How long was it going to take for their boss to realize that it was sweltering in here? Or did he already realize, and just not care? It wouldn't be the first time, they had to admit.

"Uh…boss?" Noodle spoke up, cracking the seal on a partially-frozen bottle of water. Scales looked up, one eyebrow raised. "It's almost a 110 degrees outside."

"And?" Scales returned, taking a pull from the coffeepot. None of the minions flinched—their boss had a habit of drinking what amounted to tar straight from the pot. All attempts to get him to use a mug had met with little to no success.

"Nothing," Noodle muttered, nervously taking a swig from his water bottle. His well-developed sense of self-preservation kept him from pointing out that Scales was going to be roasting in that suit in under an hour.

"Then shut your north and keep it zipped," Scales snapped in reply, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. If the minions noticed the gesture, they didn't mention it. Scales was a stubborn bastard, and any changes to acclimate to the weather would be on his terms. No sense in waking a sleeping dragon—in this case, their boss's temper—for no reason.

The subtle hints became a game for the minions over the next few hours. Noodle turned the fans on halfway through the meeting in an attempt to cool the cavernous warehouse down a touch; Scales didn't acknowledge the change.

Trevor had foregone his hat by noon after the temperature outside peaked at 113 outside, and nearly 119 inside. Considering that he never removed the hat unless ordered to, it was as close to shouting into a megaphone as the normally quiet man would get.

Mikey, normally one for beating people over the head with something, opted to throw a water bottle to his boss as the day wore on. The touch of subtlety had Noodle falling out of his seat in shock.

Kazzie was the one to make the boldest move, though—and subsequently won the bet on who would get the boss to admit defeat. (It was surprising, to the others, that Scales didn't simply pull his Glock out and shoot Kazzie.)

"Boss, it's well over a hundred-and-ten degrees," Kazzie started. He was sweating, and had downed more than three bottles of melting ice water since entering the warehouse at seven that morning.

Scales raised an eyebrow, as if to say "what's your bloody point?"

Kazzie continued on. "We're sweltering, and we're wearing shorts and t-shirts. The rest of the city is wearing less than the five of us. And if we're cooking, than you're about to get heatstroke."

Scales raised an eyebrow again. It was probably only due to the heat making everyone lethargic that he hadn't killed anyone yet. "Do I look like I give a bleedin' fuck what you geezers think?" he snapped. He stood up, wavering slightly. "I don' need any of you wankers motherin' me, and –"

The collapse was impressive. One minute, Scales was standing upright and about to verbally chew one of his employees up; the next…he'd collapsed in a heap on the ground. Unconscious.

Kazzie muttered a prayer to whatever god was listening that his boss didn't blame him for this. He sighed, and pushed back from the table. "Grab his legs," he told Mikey. "Noodle, get his coat and shirt off. We're dumping him in the tubs."

When neither of them moved, he rubbed his temples in exasperation. "NOW!" he roared. His fellow minions jumped into action immediately. Mikey and Noodle methodically stripped the gangster down to his boxers and undershirt. They were about to carry him to the giant tubs of ice when Noodle made an odd little gasping noise and nearly lost his grip on Scales' shoulders.

The other minions swore at Noodle.

"It's not my fault!" Noodle protested, looking rather defensive. "Take a look at the boss's back before you kill me!"

Kazzie and Mikey set Scales down carefully and took a look at whatever it was that had drawn Noodle's attention. The two made a silent agreement to beat Noodle senseless if it was a tattoo. (It wouldn't be hard, given how few brains the brat actually had.)

Almost in union, their jaws dropped in horror. There was a very good reason the boss hadn't dressed down like everyone else in Palm City.

His back was a patchwork of old scars and healing injuries (they'd seen him get those injuries, so those were no surprise). The most prominent scar stretched across his shoulders, partially obscured by the tank-top Scales had worn under his dress shirt.

Someone, at some point, had taken great pains to carve "FREAK" into Scales' back in three-inch high letters.

"No one breathes a word of this to anyone, get me?" Kazzie growled, grabbing hold of the boss's shoulders again. The other four nodded. No one would know of this; not from them at any rate. Anyone who found out about this would be subsequently terminated by the four who had learned about it.

They dumped their boss into the tub of ice, and dragged lawn chairs out to the lot. They'd wait, and stand guard over the boss.

- o – o –

So, this is the last chapter. A tie-in epilogue and wrap-up will be up some time tomorrow.

Like it? Hate it? Want to go find McClintock and beat him senseless yourself? Drop a line and let me know!


	6. Epilogue

It's finally here! The epilogue is here! Sorry for the late update, I lost my thumb drive.

Un-beta'ed, as always.

As this is the end of Heat Wave, I'd like to thank my reviewers. Orwell-is-watching-xoxo, for reviewing all of the chapters, and for the wonderful feedback during AIM chats at 1 in the morning; WtchCool, thanks for the reviews as well. Your feedback was appreciated. The anonymous reviewer-thank you for taking the time to drop a line.

- o - o -

Epilogue

The heat wave ended; to be more accurate, it subsided considerably.

The heat in Vince's lair didn't subside for another two weeks. This was primarily due to Orwell gleefully reclaiming the use of her computers the second the weather report announced that the heat had died down sufficiently. She'd shot a number of dirty glares in Vince's direction for a week afterward, after discovering what Vince had visited on her bank of computers.

Max returned from his out-of-town business in ample time to rescue Ruvi and Rollo from Raia. She was a few seconds from setting the tiger on the two hapless carnies, who had inadvertently managed to get on her bad side.

Trip and his mother slept in the living room for the remainder of the heat wave. The air conditioner was going full blast, and the living room was still the only room affected by it. Moving out of the living room was miserable; they were both understandably relieved when the heat died down to a reasonable level.

To the relief of Scales' inner circle, he didn't develop heat stroke. When he recovered from the collapse in the tub of ice water, the minions denied all knowledge of how he'd gotten there in his underwear. It was obvious that he didn't believe them, but he didn't press the issue.

And then he recalled that he owed a few favors to Dana Faraday…

- o - o -

So, here's the epilogue at last. It ties THS and UC together, slightly.

Like it? Hate it? Think I should have left it out entirely after the last chapter? Drop a line and let me know!


End file.
